Jack the Ripper
by Sasukeluva 4eva
Summary: A modern-day twist on an age-old legend; where horror stories REALLY began. "My name is of no consequence to you; what you should know is that in another reality, I was referred to as 'Jack the Ripper'." Tribute to Halloween and Orochimaru's Birthday. R


**a/n: STORY NUMBER **_**FIFTY**_**! XD **

**LOL. **

**Another multi-chapter fanfic, although as to its length, I haven't the faintest of ideas; that all relies on you, my lovely readers and [hopeful] reviewers. **

**So enjoy this first instalment. (:  
**

**In the spirit of Halloween (and of course our favourite creeper Orochimaru's belated birthday [note the sarcasm]), I give you this, my newest horror fic! ;)**

**Disclaimer: IDNON, BIDHTOS! That is all.**

**

* * *

**

_Summary (full): _

_A modern-day twist on an age-old legend; where horror stories REALLY began. _

_"My name is of no consequence to you; what you __**should**__ know is that in another reality, I was referred to as '__**Jack the Ripper**__'."_

_

* * *

_

**S**a_s_**u**k_e_**l**u_v_**a **4_e_**v**a_ p_**r**e_s_**e**n_t_**s_;_**

_**Jack the Ripper**_

_Sasuke x Sakura AU Lemon Fanfic _

_

* * *

_

***~*****P**r_o__l_**o**g_u_**e**

* * *

.

_London's East End—Friday 31__st__ August 1888, Buck's Row; Whitechapel—3:40 a.m._

_._

Women of all statures, from lanky and underweight to morbidly obese had gathered in the lower slums of the darkened streets of Buck's Row, some holding a fag to their lips as they inhaled deep, generous puffs of smoke into their systems; it somewhat eased the nerves of what was to come—life as a prostitute was never an easy one, after all.

An older woman, passing in her early forties, darted anxiously up the darkened alleyways, eyes shifting from side to side as she made her way back from the bar she had been residing in for the past hour and a half; not only had she drunken all of her living expenses away—the very money that could have kept her and her five offspring fed for at least a month—but now it was bordering ungodly hours of the morning. Again, such was the life of a cheap whore.

Her greying brown bob bounced frivolously with her jerky, sporadic movements, wide brown eyes surveying the area around her as she attempted in vain to find a willing compatriot that would allow her the fourpence necessary in order for her to gain a bed for the passing morning, or whatever time she could scrounge for such a luxury; the eeriness of the chilly night only fuelled her terror, as she purposefully bounded—with as much delicacy and quietude that she could muster (being quiet was not her specialty, whereas her trademark happened to be that she could reach unprecedented volumes amidst achieving orgasm, meagre or otherwise in its degree)—down the dank, empty street of Osborn.

The people had begun to thin out at this point, until it seemed that only she remained in the otherwise deserted alley; the elder woman noted that her younger counterparts, although more appealing than her in terms of youthfulness and beauty (if a slut could be labelled as such, when all they were wanted for was a decent fuck), lacked the experience that she herself carried beneath her garter—after all, nowadays what men _really_ looked for was someone that could please them, gratifying them in the only way a woman could.

Sexually inclined, the greying brunette would have been all too happy to escort a man and rid them of their 'loneliness' issues, but unfortunately, the matter of concern she was currently seeking out seemed to take further precedence to that of her need to satisfy her growing appetite; running a small, petite hand through her short, cropped hair, the brunette slowly advanced down the street, eerily aware that she was completely alone in the darkest of possible places, and that she was vulnerable to any sort of unprovoked violence.

Swallowing inaudibly, the elder woman hastened her stride until she was sure that it was safe to let her guard relax a little, unawares to the person that lurked in the shadows behind her.

Her thin lips drew together as she turned into the grounds at Buck's Row, seeking to slip through Whitechapel in order to reach her destination at a faster pace; that's when she heard them.

They seemed almost like exaggerated footfalls, beginning as nothing more than a faint scuffling against the dirt-caked sidewalks, before escalating in volume, until they resounded in the cold, frigid air of the frosty morning; at first she had assumed that it was paranoia that had gotten to her—but when the steps became more pronounced, she knew that she was in danger.

Her body had stiffened, before she stalked forward, hoping that the vast array of pitch black alleyways would be enough to shake her follower loose; after so many years in her profession, the aging brunette was aware that in order to shake off an unwanted visitor, she would have to resort to drastic measures.

Her scantily dressed body—the corseted material of her gown exposing nearly all of the flesh of her breasts, leaving little discrete—lithely slipped into the connected chain of alleys, the dipping turns a maze in itself as she carefully manoeuvred her way through each and every darkened corridor; and yet, the footfalls never ceased.

In fact, they were even more so dissonantly calm, collected, following her down every quick turn she made; when the footsteps ceased, the brunette finally stopped, sucking in harsh breaths as she caught herself from collapse.

Her already naturally wide eyes, however, suddenly bulged as she felt the heated flush of hot breath fanning against the exposed nape of her neck, the unruffled inhalations only causing her heart to clog further in her chest as she hastily snapped around, only to be met with a sharpened blade to her throat; the knife tore in deep into her jugular, sweeping across the soft flesh without barricade as the crimson fluid spurted from the deep wound, leaving her gargling and choking on her own blood as the knife quickly descended again, tearing another angular slash across her neck.

The last thing she remembered seeing was the forebodingly lethal eyes of her killer, glowing a luminescent scarlet in the otherwise fathomless darkness that shrouded them, before she became the victim of his crime, the life forever leaving her stilled body.

* * *

Charles Cross could not believe his eyes; they must have been playing tricks on him.

Because he simply could _not_ have been seeing a woman lying dead outside of the gated stable entrance of Buck's Row; no sooner had he arrived than another of his familiars, Robert Paul stopped by, curious as to why he was not yet doing his job.

"Ay, Charlie. Wha' ya' doin' n'ah doin' ya' job?"

Of course, when he was graced with the rather horrific sight, he was not sure what to make of it.

"Rob, I think we should inform the authorities. That woman is dead."

"Sure'leh she is'en—"

"No, Rob, she is dead alright. Far from any state of unconsciousness."

And with that, the police were formally involved.

* * *

"Mary Ann Nichols, date of birth 26th of August, 1845; hour of death, undetermined. Various mutilations, two extending over her throat, a deep, jagged incision made to her lower abdomen, several other incisions across the abdominal area, and three to four cuts made to her right side, estimated to be of at least a six to eight inch diameter. Judging from the small amount of blood that surrounds our victim, it can be determined that she was confined to another space when she was killed. And from the consistency—that being the measurement of how congealed her blood is, I would say that she was killed a good half hour ago at most, before being disposed of elsewhere. And you say that no one was of the wiser to this incident? No one heard anything remotely suspicious between the hours of three-forty and four a.m.?"

Dr Henry Llewellyn question pointedly, gazing somewhat remorsefully at the woman; she hadn't deserved such a fate, but it seemed that she had been destined for further hardship in her life—this just happened to be the final straw.

The PC's shook their heads in declination, restating what they had already said before; that no one, not even the local horse butchers, had heard or seen anything out of the normal in the timeframe they had given—it was almost as if this person, whoever he or she may be, had simply vanished without a trace, leaving no other evidence of their involvement, except for, of course, the butchered remains.

Sighing, the medical expert turned his trained gaze back to the brunette; although not quite as young as she probably would have liked to have been, Mary Ann Nichols had had far more life left to live in her yet.

But now any and all chances of her starting anew had been stolen from her, before the concept had even met with her mind; he had discerned that she was indeed a prostitute, from not only her choice of attire, but from the fact that she had been wandering so late at night in the middle of an abandoned alleyway alone, without escort, but that was not of any consequence—he still believed he needed to bring her justice, no matter what he had to do in order to obtain it.

* * *

.

_London's East End—Saturday 8__th__ September, 1888; back yard of 29 __Hanbury Street__, __Spitalfields—5:30 a.m._

_._

"Hello handsome; what can I do for y—URCKK!"

Blood splatters stained the surroundings an eerie shade of red.

* * *

**a/n: Well, I offer you the prologue, which pretty much covers the basics of the first two murders that JTR had committed, in my own words of course. **

**Next chapter (one) should be into the modern-day world, where Sakura comes in as the female protagonist. **

**Can't say what happens next, so if you're curious, then please review! (:**

**Until next time then!**

**Ja ne! x)**

***-Sasukeluva 4eva out-***

Extra note: Could any of you please possibly review for my new Death Note oneshot, called 'Misvattingen'? It would be much adored! :D


End file.
